


Politics Makes Strange Bedfellows

by lemondrizzle



Category: The Thick of It (TV)
Genre: Angst, British Politics, Emotional Manipulation, Explicit Language, F/M, Falling In Love, Love/Hate, Politics, Post-Season/Series 03
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-30
Updated: 2017-01-30
Packaged: 2018-07-11 04:58:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 15,268
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7029751
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lemondrizzle/pseuds/lemondrizzle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first time Nicola realises her life is shifting even beyond her precarious control is at a party Leadership Debate for the Opposition in sodding Birmingham of all places. It doesn’t help that the temperature outside hovers somewhere around the “fires of hell mark” and the air feels like treacle.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Dark Horse

**Author's Note:**

> So I was trying to further my previous fan fiction and instead this grew in my head. I did try and join it up with the other one but found I was struggling so decided to write this instead. I will try and go back to the other one at a later date. Also: thanks for being so welcoming in this fandom :) I'm enjoying my stay so far! Please leave comments etc - it's all appreciated.

The first time Nicola realises her life is shifting even beyond her precarious control is at a party Leadership Debate for the Opposition in _sodding_ Birmingham of all places. It doesn’t help that the temperature outside hovers somewhere around the “fires of hell mark” and the air feels like treacle.

Nicola’s only here under duress; she fucking hates these things. Bloody Malcolm made her participate in the last debate of the day because apparently she has to be seen to be backing King Slimeball Miller. She’d much rather be helping Clare to win - backing the underdog so to speak. But no she can’t even do that as according to Malcolm; Ministers aren’t free to think their own thoughts and do their own thing. Maybe he’s trying to lessen the work for himself or maybe he’s just a bigger bastard then she gave him credit for. Either way; she’s miserable and just wants to go home.

Finally the debates are over and she makes a quick escape from “networking”- which is really just an excuse for seeing how far everyone can climb up each other’s arses - in a room that seems to double up as a furnace and where no one seems to be wearing any deodorant. As she walks back to her room she contemplates momentarily about hiding in the massive fridge that the hotel probably has in their kitchen and then hastily decides against it because she’d probably lock herself in there, and then die of hypothermia. She shudders slightly at the thought of the newspaper headlines the next day. Knowing her luck though she’d be found just before death by the angry Scottish Death Eater.

The heat and the arseholes are only part of her problem, as she kind of _slightly_ deviated from “her” written points and it may have appeared that she was making her own bid for leadership. _Again._ When she glanced up and saw Malcolm’s death glare she knew she was in the shit. It’s made considerably worse that whenever she closes her eyes she can see the glare again and again.

She goes back to the grotty little room - one of Birmingham’s finest - with its paper thin walls, stale smell of what she hopes is kebabs and no _sodding_ air conditioning. Finally locating her key in her colossal bag -which seems to house everything from tampons to old sandwiches - she slips into the room. The heat that hits her as she opens the door drains her of any energy she has left; so she slips her shoes and tights off, decides to dry swallow some pain killers to ease the drums in her head and collapses with a sigh onto the hardest bed in sodding Christendom and lies spread eagled trying to cool down near the shitty little useless window which is letting no air in whatsoever.

She tries desperately to conjure up cold images; _she’s in Alaska, in the middle of a cold harsh winter with lots of snow…. Her fingers are numb from the cold…_

The muffled “fuck you” that wafts through the paper thin wall from the corridor outside brings her back to her sweaty reality. Within seconds the door crashes open, hitting the wall and bouncing back as Malcolm storms in like he owns the place – _its Malcolm so he probably does_.

 

“Fucking hell Malcolm, can’t you knock for once?” she says wearily, staring at the ceiling. It’s reaching a point where she’s not even sure why she bothers to ask anymore. Her autobiography will just be chapters starting off with _Malcolm came crashing into my room without bothering to knock…_ “Not like this room is fucking private or anything.”

He’s silent for a moment, and all Nicola can hear is his heavy breathing like he ran all the way here. She raises herself up on her elbows to look at him; even behind the newly acquired heavy frames he is now wearing the look he wears is one that makes her feel like a rabbit caught by a bird of prey. His hands are on his hips and just by his demeanour she knows what’s coming.

 “You’re in fucking politics Nic’la; nothing is fucking private; or if it is it’s on a file in a safe in my fucking office. And for fuck sake get up; you look like a beached whale _carcass_ that’s about to fucking explode across the room.“ He runs a hand wearily over his face “Is there anything you can’t fuck up you fucking moronic beached whale?-“

She watches as he paces around the room, swinging his hands about as vomits up apoplectic anger like she’s started a nuclear war that she didn’t know about.  But the diatribe skims over her because she’s distracted by how different Malcolm looks. For a moment, Nicola can’t put her finger on it and then she realises it’s because even the great Death Eater himself isn’t immune to the heat either.

He hasn’t got his jacket on which isn’t that unusual, but the rest is. Half of his shirt is untucked from his trousers. He still has his tie on but he’s loosened it and it hangs bedraggled a couple of inches below where it should be. The top button of his shirt is undone, and his sleeves are rolled up to his elbows. It feels dangerous that he’s so casual and a little bit messy about his appearance in front of her. That’s even before she starts thinking about those dark framed  glasses he now wears. They make him look like a younger, thinner, cadaverous version of Martin Scoresese; and she’s always had a thing for him.

Maybe it’s the heat, maybe it’s the amount of “Rescue Remedy” she’s had today to even get her to the debate, or maybe it’s because she hasn’t been so much as touched by fucking James in what could be years but Nicola’s brain suddenly whirs into action. Malcolm looks rather good for a cadaverous hell raiser. In fact she’d go as far to say _bloody handsome._

She’s torn from her day dreaming by Malcolm clicking his long fingers in front of her nose and those piercing blue eyes level with her own. “Stop fucking gawping at me woman. It’s like you’re eyeing me up for your next meal. Did you hear what I just said? Or did the fucking fairies just take your brain?-”

 “Oh just  get on with it, Malcolm” interrupting him; and moving to push herself off the bed as she’s suddenly feeling quite vulnerable with Malcolm in this type of mood. “Can we just get the bollocking over and done with, because its sodding hotter than hell and I really need a cold shower. Preferably to drown myself in”

She trails off. Maybe that wasn’t the wisest idea, especially now as she becomes very aware that the cold piercing blue eyes of Malcolm Tucker are now staring her down, even behind the glasses that look doesn’t diminish.

 “Well I’m very sorry for putting you out, you dozy mare. We can’t have that, can we? Is it OK love if you can lend me five minutes of your precious- fucking- waste- of- space- time; because I have much better things to do than looking at your glum face”

“Goodo-“

“Well; have I got news for you. In fact probably the best sodding news of your measly good for nothing life. You my darling; you” he chuckles humourlessly “are in the fucking running”

The cogs in her brain try to turn over what the hell he’s talking about; but it’s too painful “The running?”

He looks at her, over the top of his glasses; like h e’s dealing with the biggest idiot he’s ever had the misfortune to  know; “For the White House. What do you think I’m talking about you fucking idiot?! The running for leadership of the Opposition; you blithering idiot. Oh for Christ sake Nic’la - don’t look like you’re catching flies! If you hadn’t scurried away from the scene, like a rat searching for cheese you might have been able to have found this out. It’s fairly fucking obvious to anyone who has any brain cells left that you don’t believe in Dan’s policies! I mean what the hell was that out there?! I thought we’d end up with you getting a fucking polar bear on stage to support your theory about the polar ice caps and then have it maul you to a fucking bloody gory death by the end of all your sodding wittering and wining. Which believe me; I’d fucking pay to see. You; Nicola Twat Murray has started her own fucking coup and it would seem my darling that you’re  the dark fucking horse of the leadership race”

 The laugh she gives is hollow and she folds her arms across her body, “you’re joking yes? You must be really bored, Malcolm. Like I’m even going to believe-”

 “When have I ever joked with you?” he interrupts her. The corners of his mouth turn up in into a scary smirk showing his teeth that makes her think of a horror movie she had the misfortune to watch years ago when she was dating James. Right now; that would seem ideal; being killed by some sort of psycho… because that kind of smirk from Malcolm means only one thing; he’s deadly fucking serious.

 Her stomach drops away and she thinks she’s going to be violently sick.

“Holy shit Malcolm. Shit. How? What? The dark horse? How the fuck?” He nods slowly. “I didn’t even think I was a fucking horse, let alone a dark one!” She swallows hard. All she really wants is her “Rescue Remedy”, her chest is tightening and she’s suddenly can’t fucking breathe “Fucking Christ… is this.. how.. as in.. what… fuck…-“

 She launches herself off the bed and pushes past him in a desperate scramble to get to her handbag on the shitty little stained table, she can’t fucking breathe _please god let me have a heart attack right now_ , and scrabbles about through her handbag and _why the fuck can’t she find the Rescue Remedy and why the hell is there all this shit in here?_

 “Oh for Christ Sake Nic’la;  If you could act like an actual human being and not someone who is fucking MENTAL-”

 Nicola is no longer listening to the Scots ranting; instead finally locates the “Rescue Remedy” and is torn between gulping down the rest of the bottle or just using drops. She listens to the voice telling her that she should really take the drops because otherwise she might end up hallucinating on the bed, if she isn’t already. She takes a few drops but it does nothing to ease the panic bubbling away inside her; although the sound of blood in her ears, eases slightly.

 She turns around to see him grinning at her like a mad Uncle at the family Christmas party;

 “Malcolm, NO. Absolutely not. Nada. NO” her voice sounds utterly alien, high pitched , squeaky, she sounds hysterical but then she thinks she must be. She must get the stubborn arsehole in front of her to believe that in no uncertain terms will she ever go for leadership.

 “Oh contraire; I think you’ll find the majority of the brain dead ball sacks downstairs would rather vote for you; then either Clare or Dan. In the words of one “She’s the most human out the lot of them.”

 

_Nope, those two drops are not working_ ; she opens the bottle again and squeezes the pipette into her mouth desperately. _This cannot be happening._

 

Malcolm walks across to her and lays his hands on her shoulders. He’s close enough to her now that she can smell his cologne and it causes her to feel more nauseous than before. She finds herself looking into his blue eyes; hoping to see some kind of kindness but she knows this is Malcolm. She still finds herself momentarily distracted though as she seems to be lost by staring into his now glassless face; and finds herself thinking the same thing that she always does whenever they’re so close together _… fuck his eyelashes are long-_

“Nic’la you’re a fucking omnishambles. You are I both know this. But do you want to sit on the side-lines for the rest of your shambolic life; being a miserable, smug cow, or do you want to do something that could change the Smiths and Jones’ life? Isn’t this why you came into this fucking politics?” She narrows her eyes at him. _He’s using that?!?_

(Once a few months back he asked her on one particular dark and dismal night- one where he wasn’t allowing her to go anywhere until she got a speech right - why she had even bothered to go into politics. She’d been tired so she told him the truth. She wanted to make a change to how things were. She knew what it was like; how her parents had struggled with bringing up her and her siblings, she wanted to help people, bring about something that was different rather than the day to day struggle that so many people coped with)

 She moves away from him _this what he’s using?!_ _Manipulative bastard._ The sheer panic suddenly gives way, and anger rises in her the pit of her stomach.

“Let’s face it love; and I really can’t believe I’m saying this… you’re the best thing for our party to get us back into power.”

“You good for nothing manipulative bastard. I told you that in private; not to use it when you thought the time is right Malcolm!!” She backs away from him, hoping to put distance between him and herself.

_“_ Aye lass, and don’t you forget it for one tiny fucking moment,” he hisses at her, walking over to her -closing the distance she’d hoped to put between them - their faces now so close together that his spittle hits her cheek. “We all know that if Clare wins, it’s over for the party for good, and do you really want that? And as much as I like Dan; even if he does win he won’t be taking us back into power because he’s about as human as K-fucking – 9! So really; yeah, if you’ve unknowingly started a coup ; well you know I’ll make it worth your while, donchya?!  If you don’t believe me sweetheart, go and put on something that doesn’t look like it’s so tight it’s going to fucking asphyxiate you-” He waves his hand in front of her face, and it takes all her strength not to bat it out the way “ – because you’re making me feel so hot just looking at you; and that’s not in a sexual way mind, because I’d rather asphyxiate myself! We need you Nicola is we want to go anywhere! I’ll give you a couple of hours to think about it – and then well…

 “I don’t have a fucking say about this do I?”

“If you want the best for the party then no you fucking don’t”

“And… if I don’t?”

“I’ll be writing your very nice, bland resignation tonight.”

“You little fucking shit, Malcolm. Just. Fuck off.” She spits out. He smirks at her, and then he’s walking away from her; wrenching the door open like it’s done something personal against him and shouts over his shoulder “Until tonight, glummy Mummy!” and stalks out of her room.

She feels violated and dirty, but most of all she feels hatred for the man. She picks up the used glass tumbler beside her on the table, and screams as she forcibly throws it at the already stained wall. As it hits, the sound of it shattering into tiny shards gives some satisfaction to Nicola. _Fucking bastard._

This has got to be some kind of spectacularly awful sodding joke...

 

xxxxx 

 

Several hours, two panic attacks and a used up bottle of “Rescue Remedy” later she realises that it isn’t. She’s at the bar  on her fifth or _is it sixth_ Mojito of the evening,  gulping it down like it’s the last drink she’ll ever have and hoping the mixture of “Rescue Remedy,” painkillers and alcohol will mean a quick death.  She’s managed to fix herself a quiet corner at the hot grubby bar, which is in relative darkness and away from the worst slimeballs and their god-awful BO. If she has to smile and nod at some other gimp that comes across to tell her that she’d do an amazing job as leader, and “ _if there’s anything that they can do to help her fix that position they’ll do it,”_ she thinks she’ll scream and then murder someone. Preferably Malcolm. _It has to be something about Birmingham and the heat_ she thinks _. Once we all get back to cold, drizzly London, everyone will be laughing about this._

An unholy screech makes her turn around and study the god-awful idiot murdering _What’s Love Got to Do With It?_ Normally, Nicola loves karaoke– but tonight when it’s hotter than hell, her head is pounding, and she wants to throttle Malcolm - she’d rather shoot the sod who thought it was a good idea.

She catches sight of Malcolm casually making his way across the room full of drunken idiots. She watches as people scuttle away (Ollie) like they have a bad case of diarrhoea and desperately need the toilet or they uncomfortably share a joke (Dan) with him and although bile rises in her from how much she just hates him, she can’t help but think that he doesn’t look bad for a satsuma obsessed devil.

She turns back to her drink, and takes a large slug of it, trying to ignore the traitorous thoughts and rather get the courage that when he inevitably appears to tell him to fuck off and take his sodding leadership bid with him.

  The smell of his cologne fills her nostrils before he appears, giving her just enough warning time to get her something like an act together.

“Malcolm Fucker, coming to ruin my fun are you?” She has to yell slightly to the space that he appears in to make herself heard above the noise of what used to be Tina Turner being screeched out.

“Mojito Murray, ever classy aren’t we?”

“Malcolm. Just fuck off, yeah? I just want to get blind drunk and hopefully die.”

“Sorry, no can do Ni’cla. If you’re going to be our leader, I really can’t have you making everyone go fucking deaf when you can barely stand – although Fiona’s having a damn good try at it.” He whips the ice cold glass out of her hand, and puts it down on the other side of him. “I take it you’ve decided on the right thing to do?”

“I’ve decided on sod fucking all actually Malcolm, except that I will finish my drink, and _IF_ I want to sing along to fucking _Mamma_ Sodding _Mia_ , I will. So fuck off Malcolm.” she reaches round to retrieve it, but he stops her by grabbing her wrist, and wrenches her off the stool making it topple over. People turn as he frog marches her rather drunken self across the floor like a misbehaving child which is equally infuriating and embarrassing at the same time.

 “Malcolm, for Christ sake”, she tries to pull her arm free but his grip just tightens. He gets out of the room; smiles evilly at someone walking down the corridor and then pulls her into another room and slams the door shut. He finally releases her arm and he’s in her face, pinning her against the door. Instead of being intimidated she’s going to use it to her best advantage.  She needs to get her view point known and if that’s getting up close and personal, then so be it. She’s feeling brave; although that could be down to the alcohol.

 “Listen to me, you nutty bint.” He jeers into her face “this is needed for the party to actually get us back into power. We need you. Do you really think I’d be allowing this sort of talk to go on, if I didn’t think you were a better alternative to those arseholes?”

“Oooh the great Malcolm Tucker begging me. _Again_. Careful Malcolm you’ll be starting to get a reputation…“ She sways slightly and realises that her tongue is numb….and everything is sort of hazy.

“And you’re going to get a reputation as a drunken lush” he taunts; and starts pacing like a caged bear.

“You’re so fucking used to getting your own way aren’t you; you just don’t know how to cope when something doesn’t go your way…”

He stops and glowers at her “That’s my fucking job you dozy cow!!” he hisses out. “Why can’t you see that without this the party is going to be down the pan?”

“That…” she’s having a hard time thinking up any words at all that even begin to explain how much she hates this idea and then launches into the only thing she can think “It’s all about the sodding party with you isn’t it? You have nothing… nothing.. better to think about so you live and fucking breathe it, and so you become tyrannical and stomp over what other people actually fucking want”

“Oh for fuck sake, listen to yourself will you!” he hisses back - his face is so now dangerously close to hers - she can smell the Fanta on his breath.

 “You. You…” she launches herself from the door and jabs him with a finger, hard enough that he starts moving backwards “you… fuck you Malcolm. You’ve put me between a rock and a hard place, and oh… sod this. Can I leave now?” She points to the door “Or am I destined to stay in this room with you for –fucking –ever, because I do have a life to lead y’know…”

“One that involves copious amounts of alcohol obviously. Look; I’ll leave you the fuck alone as soon as you say yes. Why can’t you get it in that thing you call a brain that you winning - because you will win – will be the greatest thing for you and OUR party. You could become PM. Imagine….” He whispers the last line and sweeps his hand across; staring off into the distance like he’s imagining what it could be like…

“No, Malcolm. Nada. Because… “ She sighs heavily wishing she hadn’t had so much to drink “you know why. I will only disappoint myself and you. I couldn’t even fucking lead DoSAC effectively…”

“So can I assume I’ll be writing your resignation”

She shakes her head. She’s had enough of this. She needs to get out.  She turns to open the door and then suddenly Malcolm is there, slamming the door shut, eyes glaring at her like she’s the devil incarnate.

“You fucking ASSHAT!” she screams at him.

“Just say yes”, he smirks at her “just say yes, and I’ll allow you out of here. Think about it. Think how you could be the next PM, and that massive arsewipe of a husband will say when you become leader, he might even give you a shag, because you certainly need a good seeing too -“

It’s not until the sound of skin on skin contact and her hand is stinging with pain that even in her inebriated state she can feel; does she realise what she’s done. A large red hand mark on his cheek starts to grow and he stares at her in disbelief, shock and anger. _Shit._

“Fuck! Shit..  Malcolm I-“

It’s the oldest cliché in the book and when she looks back on it all, it’s all a blur. He launches forward eyes like fire. She ends up backed against the door again because his gaze is so intense that she feels like she’s going to explode from the sheer intensity of it. She feels herself shaking slightly and panic rising in her chest. There is no way out. Suddenly all the air is forced out of her as she realises his tongue is invading her mouth forcefully. Nothing about it is gentle; it’s rough and as angry and as furious as she feels. As her brain catches up with what’s happening, she responds, their tongues start doing battle for dominance and their teeth clash. It isn’t pretty. She can taste the sickly sweet Fanta overriding the taste of cheap rum and mint in her mouth and if anything it just makes her feel more nauseous..  One hand is in her hair, roughly pulling and the other is moving down her body…

He tugs at her bottom lip with his lips, making her groan. And then his hot blissful mouth is on her neck, nipping and it’s _dangerous_ and she hears herself moaning. But the pause between nips is enough for the dulled alarm bells to start ringing clearly in her head and - _OH FUCK._

_YOU’RE FUCKING KISSING FUCKING MALCOLM!!! FUCK, BUGGER, FUCK, SHIT_

She’s suddenly painfully aware of it all, of who this is that’s kissing her neck. She tenses and he pulls back slightly and that’s enough that can push him away from her; the force making him stumble back, loosening his grip on her. Nicola uses the freedom to turn and wrench the door open. She bolts down the corridor; her lipstick smeared and her lips feeling bruised and sore; people look at her as she runs past like a demented banshee but she doesn’t care. She needs to get away from him as quickly as possible.

She knows she’s just agreed to being “the dark horse”. What she doesn’t realise is how this is the start of something that will completely turn her world on its axis; and that it takes her years before she can even go back to Birmingham without feeling nauseas. 


	2. The Debut

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If Nicola’s honest she hasn’t got the first idea of what is currently happening with her career or personal life. Between having the anaemic velociraptor of politics tongue shoved down her throat in a low rent hotel in sodding Birmingham after one too many mojito’s and the British Press’ sudden interest in her fucking career, she’s wondering about the possibility of being able to overdose on “Rescue Remedy” or finding herself on Jeremy Kyle on a show called “I’m addicted to Rescue Remedy – Intervention.”

I'm so sorry that it's taken me such a horrifically long time to update. My life has just been chaos recently and I had so many ideas! Anyway, i'm going to be updating more regularly than every 5 months next time!

 

* * *

 

If Nicola’s honest she hasn’t got the first idea of what is currently happening with her career or personal life. Between having the anaemic velociraptor of politics tongue shoved down her throat in a low rent hotel in sodding Birmingham after one too many mojito’s and the British Press’ sudden interest in her fucking career, she’s wondering about the possibility of being able to overdose on “Rescue Remedy” or finding herself on Jeremy Kyle on a show called “I’m addicted to Rescue Remedy – Intervention.”

She assumed - once she’d managed to get back into the fusty room that doubled up as a Swedish sauna - that the Armani wearing Rat would have realised it was too much hassle trying to get her to become the sodding dark horse of the leadership race. Rather  - due to his sober clarity – he’d choose to absolutely destroy her. She expected that he’d have spun such a story that she’d find the Press tearing her limb from limb the following morning whilst being laughed out of Parliament and forced to buy a Llama farm in Peru.

During an hour whereupon the only people who are awake are insomniacs, drunks or herself impersonating Morticia Addams, the Chuckle Brothers arrived outside her door. She’s unsure she’s ever been happier to see Ollie standing there outside her room holding a coffee “darker than Malcolm’s soul”, which he’d thrust into her grasping hands. Glenn had sauntered past, and dumped seemingly every single newspaper for the day in Britain on her bed.

Turned out, she hadn’t had to worry about getting the telling her kids they’re going to Brazil. What she needed to worry about was the fucking _Mail_ using the single handily worse photo of her and then promptly calling her the new Fashion Leader of Politics, which she could only assume was ironic. Or _The Telegraph_ saying she could be the next PM.

In her sleep deprived, caffeine ridden mind she would have got down on her knees and thanked the manipulative bastard. But she soon came to her senses when she got home to absolute chaos in the midst of it being the hottest day on record. The British Press had taken up outside her house, Ella spent her time desperately trying to be photographed in just her underwear, whilst Katie screamed blue murder at her for “ruining her fucking life”. Over the period of the last few days James becomes more of a ubiquitous shit than ever before, the hissed arguments slowly turning into full on yelling matches, and she wonders whether it’s something to do with however much she tries not to think about it, she gets assaulted by images of The Asshat pushing her up against the door and making her feel more alive in those few minutes than the past 5 years…

 

**xxxxxxx**

 

 “Um… Nicola… are you listening?”

Nicola comes too, blinking rapidly and then looks up at Ollie just staring at her, hands waving about in front of her nose,  mouth agape like he’s catching flies and realises she just zoned out completely of whatever it was that he was telling her.

“Huh?”

“I just said that Malcolm’s just called.”

“Great. However I’m going home. I’m going to ignore the evil bastarding dictator and go. It’s fucking six o’clock, what does he want at six that’s so fucking important anyway?”

“Do you think that’s really wise, Nicola?”

“I’m half dead from the heat, the fan packed in three hours ago Ollie and you know what? I want a fucking drink after this week”

“Nicola he’s pissed. He was raving on about how you can make the party look like a nun especially after Ethan from Health deciding to become a gigolo and the packet that definitely wasn’t icing sugar debacle”

“Have you ever considered a career as a gutter journalist Ollie, because that could be a great headline…” _All I want is to have the cold Chablis in the fridge – if Katie hasn’t snaffled it – whilst drowning myself in cold water and being able to stumble into the bushes because the bloody media won’t be there to document it._ She smiles at him as she gets her bag “Seriously though Ollie for once in your shitty life… man up.”

She’s half way down the corridor silently congratulating herself at her fast exit and Ethan’s wondrous cockup meaning that she can a glass of Chablis in her hand not worry about the sodding Press when  Malcolm picks that exact moment to appear around the corner in front of her.

 “Jesus Fucking Christ,” she puts a hand to her chest and waits for her heart rate to resume to some normality –“where the fuck did you come from?”

“No just Malcolm”, he retorts, hands in pockets “Although I can fucking walk on water and turn shit to fluffy butterflies”, The Scottish for some reason causes her stomach to do a strange sort of flip which she chooses to ignore  “You going home to the looney bin?” He wearily wipes his hand over his face and even in the bad lightening in the corridor she can see how bloodshot his eyes are.

“Yes, Malcolm – I spend my fucking life here, and if I want to go home and see my children, and my _husband,_ and drink cold wine and fall into a hedge because the Press are no longer camped outside my house than I will do. I can only assume you meanwhile stalk the corridors at night to find a body to fucking devour. So excuse me. This has been such a lovely --” Nicola moves to walk around him, but instead he just grabs her arm and stops her in her tracks. She looks down at the hand holding her arm and back up at him where he’s grinning like a maniac, which _he is._  She should fucking remind herself of that more often.

“Yup; I’m like the real life bloke out of that vampire with romance shit that everyone’s talking about; the ones their making into a fucking film; … y’know the one with werewolves fighting over a sour faced lass -“

“Twilight?” Nicola offers, trying to pull her arm out of his grasp. Her knowledge of any vampire related shit comes from Katie and Ella who are going through an obsession with the books in full preparation for the film that was about to come out.

“Yeah you really are the font of all shitty knowledge aren’t you? he sneers at her, holding on tight

“Fantastic Malcolm. Fucking fantastic. Can I have my fucking arm back -?”

“You’ve heard what Ethan has done? I’m literally disembowelling him. Absolute twat that man. You and I are going to have a nice fucking chat about how you’re going to win this fucking Leadership race and make this party duller than fucking nun.” He uses the hand that he has on her, to steer her back in the direction she’s come from, and she can’t help but shiver slightly at where he’s touched her.

“Fuck off”, she snaps back, trying to cover it up.

“ _You_ want to be leader, don’t you? Well – “

She stops and turns around, the anger builds up in her and he almost collides into her “No.” she hisses at him “YOU want me to be leader. There is a fucking difference”

Malcolm rolls his eyes, and then actually fucking _growls_ at her “Keep your sodding voice down you auld saggy skinned bint,” and quickly ushers her back into the office, pass Ollie and Glenn. Contempt radiates off him when he finally slams the office door shut and invades her personal space “Keep fucking quiet alright?” he  hisses at her “we don’t need the entire place knowing that for fuck sake.”

There’s something about Malcolm being so up close and personal to her at the moment, and she’s unsure of what it is, she balls her fist up and digs her nails into the palm because he smells so good and she’s back in that room, backed up against the door and he’s nipping her neck…

She’s saved by knocking at the door, and awakens from her day dream to find Malcolm staring at her head cocked and his eyes… and then he turns to see whose coming into the room

 “Oh good Jack and Jill are here!”, Malcolm jeers, and Nicola takes the moment to stalks over to the cabinet nearest her desk, opens the door, sighs upon realising that she never did re-stock her “emergency drinks at fucking work” stash and pulls out the cheapest bottle of Whisky that she’s pretty sure is left over from her predecessor. Obviously she’s not going to go home early to enjoy the ice cold Chablis so _yes this is a fuckin emergency thank you fucking much_

“What is this? Drag Nicola into a fucking room and hopefully sodding manipulate her week? You’ve had your sodding fun,” she asks as she pours the drink into the tumbler and turns around to see Ollie and Glenn standing their looking like they been caught measuring their dicks whilst Malcolm peers at both of them like he can read their souls.

He twists to look at her “Nic’la are you such a drunken lush that you can’t go for one fucking minute without a drink?” He walks over to the cabinet to where she’s holding the bottle “Jesus Christ, are you seriously drinking that? If you want to commit suicide there are easier ways to go, I’m sure if you wait around long enough, the fucking cleaners will be able to bring you some cleaning liquid. It’ll go down far better-“

“So what’s the plan Malc?” Glen ventures interrupting Malcolm’s diatribe.

 “What we need to put a stop to all this media bollocking shit about the sodding party, especially after that utter dimrod, fuck cunt of a man  – and I’m specifically picking you. You have the core values that everyone loves. Legs opened for business and NOW it means wholesome family, married for twenty years, no scandals that anyone will ever remember. I’ve booked you in for a photography session and then several interviews after.-“

“Ah yes the let’s make Nicola into the Walton’s plan, brilliant. Couldn’t go wrong Malcolm!”

“More like the Von Trapps, Glenn; plus we’ve even got the obligatory Nazi to go with it”, Ollie laughs but is soon stopped when Malcolm stares at him like he just murdered his grandmother.

“Sorry?” Nicola turns and stares at him not really believing what the hell has just come out of his mouth, leaning against the cabinet.

“Jesus woman. You really are a failed abortion whose birth certificate is an apology from the condom factory aren’t you?”, Malcolm pulls his attention back to her, and she finds herself startled by suddenly even with him looking at her like some kind of Wild Cat stalking his prey just how tired he looks. “Photographs. Of you. And your family” he explains to her like she’s thick “where they get the wankers to lean on door posts, whilst the poor posh cows they married pretend to drink a cup of tea when secretly it’s sodding Vodka.  You have these kids – we might as well use the little demons to show the others that you have everything that cockweasel Dan doesn’t – he’s using his bachelor status like a good thing - Clare certainly doesn’t have a Valentine, so it’s you because everyone will then shut up about that cunting wankface Ethan. You go home every night, look after the monsters and at the weekend take long family walks with the fucking dog that you no doubt have, followed with tea and scones

She laughs. Actually laughs at the thought of it all. It would be like herding fucking sheep trying to get them to do this. Her kids hate each other and are screaming banshees most the time (which is why come to think about it she doesn’t go home that all that early and lets the Nanny cope.) And then there’s James and her so called marriage…

“Malcolm. For fuck sake. I’m really not the answer. I have a fucking Nanny, I’m definitely not “mother fucking nature”, I’m never really home, I probably haven’t cooked since the time you fucking propelled me into DoSAC.  “And-“ Malcolm looks like he’s about to speak so she holds her hand up “I don’t even own a sodding dog. And my kids and James stay the fuck away from my career” She takes a large gulp of the Whisky and tries not to wince at the taste of it.

“Oh stop being so fucking melodramatic!! I’m not asking you to murder the complete fuckleberry twat of a husband, I’m asking you to some sodding photographs.”

“It’ll be like World War Fucking Three-”

“-Maybe you should have thought about it eighteen years ago and used fucking contraceptives.”

“Ok. Fuck off will you?” She bangs her glass down on the table, and the Whisky sloshes over the top onto her hand, and he has the fucking gaul to actually smile at her.

“There, that’s what I’m after. What I always knew you had. A bit of fire in your belly and your eyes – although its fucking hard to tell really whether that’s sodding fire or whether it’s just cheap Dignitas whisky”

“Shut up Malcolm. Because turning my family into the Waltons will really fucking help. That won’t make me fucking glum or smug. Do whatever you want with me but not my family. If anything, ANYTHING, it would be like the Von Trapp Family, just without the sodding singing, but you’ll be there. Standing in as the fucking Nazi’s.”

“Now you are mad-“

 “It would be fucking hypocritical too” she adds as an after thought and then immediately regrets it. The air hangs between them, there’s a silence and Nicola’s heart is rapidly beating to such a point she think she must be having a heart attack. Right now if looks could kill, Nicola would be dead. He turns back to Glen and Ollie who are no longer smirking and Glen’s facial expression reminds her of what a cats would look like if it sucked a lemon. “Out. Now.”

The scramble to get out of the room would be laughable if Nicola didn’t feel like her stomach was dropping out.

“What?!?” He spits out edging closer to her. She’s backed up against the fucking cabinet and well -

“Well…. “ she gestures with her arms “Birmingham”, she tries to concentrate on breathing

He stares at her for a moment and then growls; “Christ on a bike you utterly stupid woman - you are nothing fucking special. The fucking idea” he laughs humourlessly “you’re the last person I actually _want_ to kiss, I’d rather fucking shag Glen.”

She takes a sip of the Whisky, trying to remain calm, trying to show him that he hasn’t affected her, because it _really_ hasn’t. “I wasn’t under any illusions Malcolm”, it comes out more bitterly than she thought it would.

“Fan-fucking-tastic. I didn’t want you to be any illusions pet.”

“Malcolm. I’m a married woman with four children, BELIEVE me there wasn’t any illusions – “ she scoffs

  “-You wouldn’t shut the fuck up -”

“-Sorry?! You fucking manipulative arsehole –“

Nicola fights the urge to get up and hit him hard. She balls the fist up that doesn’t have the Whisky, glaring at him with utter contempt-

 “You mean absolutely fuck all to me.”

“I totally fucking understand that you anaemic grey bastard-” another large gulp of Whisky, and she visibly winces this time but it’s good, she’s starting to feel a bit numb due to not eating enough today.

“Good-“

“Because you mean sod all to me. OK?-”

 “We never fucking talk about this again!! It NEVER HAPPENED”

“Fine. Glad that’s fucking settled”, and she suddenly realises she’s shaking and she’s close to tears and she wants to get the fuck out before he can that he’s rattled her. She smashes her Whisky glass down with more force than she intended and picks up her bag and goes to walk out of the room, passing him, and the smell of his cologne makes her heart skip a beat. Nicola can see the door, in moments she’ll be free and suddenly she feels a hand on her arm, and it stops her. She finds herself looking down at the hand, and then back up to Malcolm’s face. 

“Nicola”, he says softly, his eyes are softer than when they began, and it’s an odd feeling that Nicola gets, but then the then the anger, and the hatred comes bubbling to the surface “Fuck off Malcolm” she wrenches her arm away from his hand and without a second look is out of the door faster than he can follow.

 

**xxxxxx**

 

Half past twelve on Saturday and Nicola finds herself locking the bathroom door and frantically searching for the some more “Rescue Remedy” in the medicine’s cabinet, hoping desperately that Harry hadn’t found it and thought it was Calpol like before.

She manages to extract the stuff and pour some into her mouth, whilst listening to the chaos happening outside the bathroom door. She was right, it is World War III; Harry chasing the sodding dog around, Ella and Tom screaming blue murder, the slam of doors echoing around the house, whilst Malcolm yells threats at anyone who dares to look at him.

It’s been like this since eight in the morning, which is quite frankly an unacceptable time for anyone to turn up at your house on a sodding _Saturday_ , but this is Malcolm after all. Katie caught sight of Malcolm and declared that “she’d rather be dead than anywhere near the Scottish skeleton”,  and managed rather surreptitiously for her to leave. Her absolute wanker of a husband hasn’t been here since 9pm last night after quite frankly a massive argument where both of them had been going full throttle in the kitchen.

She hears a knock at the bathroom door, which brings her out of her revelry of how she really should just have used the knife she’d been using for cutting up bread and instead used it on James and yells at it “can’t I have some peace and quiet?”

“Well if you do, you really should have kept your legs shut” comes the reply

She opens the door and finds Malcolm scowling at and lets him in, ignoring the photographer outside in the corridor peering at her curiously and then carefully locks the door.

“I’d prefer having a fucking rabid dog eating my balls then deal with this asylum. You can’t even sodding control them”

“Well no-one fucking asked you to be here. And quite frankly Malcolm I’d like to see you fucking try with four kids.” She turns to get back to the mission in hand.

“Ah. I’m not that stupid. I keep the little boy wrapped up”, he looked down at his phone for a moment “Jesus, I’m going to have to spin this out for you. Why the hell couldn’t you have waited to have a fucking argument with your _massive wankstain twat_ of a husband”, it’s weary though, and he looks like he’s had enough of all of this. If it was anyone else, in any other situation she’d be worried about him.

 Nicola laughs humourlessly, peering into the inner depths of the cupboard “I don’t have a fucking GPS for the wanker. If I did, it would probably solve half my issues. Aha!” she finally manages to extract the “Rescue Remedy” from the back of the bathroom cabinet.

She takes a couple of pipettes of the stuff and concentrates on breathing because if she’s honest she feels like she’s on the verge of a panic attack, rather than look at Malcolm who seems to be routed to the spot. She starts to pace the little bathroom, trying very hard to remember how to breathe. She feels like her stomach is about to give way.

“For fuck sake woman, you’re making me feel a bit sick”, and he reaches out and grabs her by the shoulders, “Nicola, look we’ll go back out there, make up some shit about him working on Saturdays. It’ll be fine.” She nods, still looking down at the bathroom floor and then suddenly “seriously love, he doesn’t deserve you”

The bottom of her stomach falls away. It makes her look into his eyes; normally so cold and dark but today _so blue. Fuck – had they always been this blue, bluer and brighter than the sea itself;_ and she’d been to the fucking Maldives once. _They look warm,_ but she knows him. She knows he’ll kill her in a moment no matter how utterly startling his eyes are.

It reminds her of when she was Eastbourne, desperately trying to write a speech and Joss or was it Jean, or whoever the hell the woman was had led utter chaos. He’d calmed her down then, and she was just as lost in his eyes as she is now.

_FUCK_. Had she really just _written a fucking poem about his sodding eyes._

“Jesus. Nicola, just how… how bad is it?”

“Malcolm-“

There’s a bang as the front door is slammed shut, she jumps from the sudden noise, which is closely followed by a mans voice exclaiming “fucking hell!!” a dog barking and then “But Dad!” in Harry’s beseeching voice.

It’s too much for Nicola. All of this is too much, and suddenly she doesn’t feel sad or miserable she just feels cold fury whip through her veins

She moves faster than she has done in a while.  Many years later Malcolm will say that he thought she was auditioning for the London Olympics at the speed she unlocked the door, and then flew out of the bathroom and down the stairs to suddenly find herself face – to – face with all 6ft 3, fantastically rugby toned drunk husband, stinking of not expensive cologne like Malcolm – _fuck, when did she start comparing –_ but rather fags and beer and sweat.

 “Where the _hell_ have you been arsehole?” she spits out to him as she comes to a stop in front of the absolute wasted specimen she calls a husband “I told you, I FUCKING TOLD YOU, to be here but no you had to go out and get absolutely wasted”

“Nicky, wasn’t it you that said you didn’t want me to be here. Look, I’m tired. Can’t you just – “

He pushes past her, and moves towards the stairs, but Malcolm appears in front of him and she realises just how much he is the opposite to her masculine, lad bantering husband “Look arsehole, you’re going to go into the sodding kitchen and drink far too much coffee and fucking sober up”, hisses Malcolm into his face.

“Who the hell do you think you are?!”

“The person whose saving your wife’s career”, and somehow out of somewhere which astonishes Nicola for many years to come, physically _hauls_ the drunken wreck into the kitchen, past the journo and the photographer and follows behind.

Malcolm pushes James into the room, as Nicola slowly shuts the door behind them

“You must have been born on a motorway because that’s where most accidents happen!! Are you going to explain yourself, _why_ the fuck you want to ruin your wife’s career, because you’re doing a massively good job of it?”

“Sorry, what did you say?? FUCK.OFF”, and James pushes his stool over and grabs the smaller, scrawnier Malcolm by the collar and peers down at him

To Malcolm’s credit he doesn’t even wince, instead he comes back with “I’ve had bigger men for you for breakfast”,

Nicola, suddenly very wary of the whole situation moves to be in the middle of them “For crying out loud, this isn’t fucking Jeremy Kyle”, and pulls her much drunken husband away from Malcolm, putting onto the breakfast bar stool, stuffing a cup of coffee under his nose which has just seemingly appeared from nowhere. Malcolm sets about straightening his tie

“Don’t let him get to you sweetie”, she tells James and pats him on the arm like she’s dealing with one of the five thousand children she feels like she has. He takes a massive gulp of the coffee she’s put in front of him. “Look, I’m sorry for what I said. I didn’t mean it, y’know the heat of the moment and all that” _Anything_ to calm the situation.

He smiles and looks at her “Oh God Nicky. I do love you. I didn’t…” – and it makes her stomach physically turn “I’m so very proud”, the smell of beer makes her want to gag as he goes to hug her and hold her close. “Nicky, Nicky, Nicky what are we like?”

Between trying not to gag and breathe through her mouth, she hears Malcolm’s phone goes off and he answers it with a sharp “What?”

What saves her from being hugged by the sweat box that is her husband, is feeling a tap on her back, and pulls herself out of the hug to see Malcolm glowering at her husband like by a stare alone he’ll just die

“Sorry to break this little love nest up,  – but your fucking _colossal accident_ of a husband here was photographed snorting Columbia’s fucking finest-”

It’s at this moment Katie decides to arrives home- pissed.


	3. Pandora's Box - Part 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the quiet seconds that follow; there’s a second phone call. In all the years that Nicola’s been a politician and been under the control of Malcolm F Tucker; she knows second phone calls always bring the worst news.
> 
> This time the words “Bulgarian”, “prostitute”- and Nicola still can’t be sure a few hours later but she’s sure that the highly emotive word such as “trafficked” is used.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi - I'm so sorry it's taken me so long to update (again!). Although this time I do have an excuse in that my computer died, so went to have it fixed but the shop lost it and after about a 2 month saga, I finally have a new computer but had to start everything again when they lost my data. *sigh*
> 
> I have split this chapter up into two parts because it got really bloated and I just thought in terms in easiness it'd flow better.

In the quiet seconds that follow; there’s a second phone call. In all the years that Nicola’s been a politician and been under the control of Malcolm F Tucker; she knows second phone calls always bring the worst news.

This time the words “Bulgarian”, “prostitute”- and Nicola still can’t be sure a few hours later but she’s sure that the highly emotive word  such as “trafficked” is used.

She’s pretty sure Malcolm’s going to have a coronary right here in the kitchen. James starts stuttering like a faulty car engine as Malcolm hisses, face flushed from anger, eyes showing his white hot fury  “You snivelling, worthless pig brained _cunt_ -“

She feels that she’s having an out of body experience. _Maybe there’s LSD in the Rescue Remedy after all?_ And then she finds herself spinning on the spot and hits the _fucking_ cunt with such force that he falls sideways; whilst Malcolm takes a step back and looks alarmed;

“Mum!-“

“Nicola-“

“That’s my girl-”

“You fucking son of a bitch _!”_ she screams at him, “WHAT-“

A hand on her arm grips her tightly, and she stops and looks up to find Satan’s protégée looking at her; his eyes give her a curious, if not disturbing feeling inside of her rib cage and a weird fluttering in her stomach which she decides not to investigate;

“What?” she spits, somewhat unfairly at him but still, he’s a bastard too.

“You should go, take her” he nods towards Katie; whose now slid down a cabinet, face burrowed into hands, shaking with sobs “I’ll sort this all out”, he says looking at James who actually looks like he might shit himself “but don’t make it so fucking obvious when you walk past those fucking colostomy bags eh lass?”

She gently grabs Katie’s hand, offers what she hopes is comforting noises and pulls her up and along after her. As she reaches the door, she turns back to Malcolm “the knives are in there-“ she says pointing at a drawer “just don’t get my nice _clean_ kitchen messy”, she smiles at Malcolm who just bares his teeth at her as she turns and grabs the handle; “Aye”, as she pulls Katie out she hears him hissing at James “oh fucking _relax,_ she’s joking, I’ve never _physically_ killed anyone-“

 

She decides the best option is to stay upstairs; where there’ s a plentiful supply of “Rescue Remedy”, so that when she’s finally made Katie go back to bed she can drink it like it’s water. She tries hard not to think about everything that’s happened and then the Communications Department crash into the house like a whirlwind, and Glen – the human equivalent of Eeyore –  stumbles into the room, complaining about the fucking _unfairness_ of it all because it’s fucking S _aturday, “_ for God sake Nicola” – like can  you _please_ pre – arrange family crises for his fucking time table. (He was doing _bastarding Suduku_ for fuck sake.)

And then, Hamish appears around the corner of the door, brandishing a bottle of Ardberg like it’s his life blood, cackling in joy, and Glenn suddenly gets out of fucking reverse They pour her a fucking _mug_ of the stuff, and shove it into her hands; and it’s blissful, it really is, that first sip hitting her stomach…

“It could be worse”, Eeyore happily proclaims, and then shuts up as Nicola opens her eyes and glowers at him. She finds herself wondering momentarily whether she could bottle him with Ardberg and then decides against it, because it might do more harm to the fucking expensive bottle than to his head.

Famous last words really because it really _does_ get worse.

It gets worse in the shape of Hitler and Cancer’s love child several drinks later appearing around the door, and she’s definitely too sober to cope with all of this

“Get out old man”

Glen jumps and then shuffles past Malcolm; although she notes that he doesn’t put his glass down, rather takes it with him “you’re a shapeshifter Malcolm-” he mutters

“You’re just a boring fuck-“ he yells after him, slamming the door shut and turning the key. For some reason the fear doesn’t hit her like it should do, trapped in a room with _him._

“Malcolm” she sighs deeply “Have you killed him yet?”

 “Still fucking alive and stuttering unfortunately. He’d make for a very ugly and messy death, and I don’t like to get these pristine hands too dirty” Malcolm chuckles, holding up his hands;

“How unfortunate”

He walks over to her and sits down beside her “Did you know what that absolute abortion was up too?” he stares at her expectantly, and she finds herself looking up, into his eyes _and was it only this morning that this had all started?_ He looks as exhausted as she feels, but his eyes look kind, but maybe that’s the very expensive Whisky talking.

She laughs humourlessly; “James is a ubiquitous shit at the best of times, so nothing really surprises me.” She takes a glug of the Whisky, as she feels a pressure on her thigh and then realises it’s his fucking hand. _Do not fucking register it._

 “The drugs aren’t new are they?”

She shakes her head “He’s a fucking sheep Malcolm,” staring into the glass, hoping desperately it might give her some of the answers she’s looking for; like _why is Malcolm’s hand on my knee_ “he’s always been the same, if his friends were doing it, he’d always have to follow. I thought he’d stopped what with the kids getting older, having too much to lose what with my career. ”

 “Oh fucking hell”, Malcolm’s hand leaves her thigh and she misses the warmth instantly “Nicola,” he wearily wipes his hand over his face  “I needed to know everything when firefighting your fucking fires, and in case one of the colostomy wankers writes or finds something about you, especially with trying to make you leader”

“I had absolutely no fucking clue I was married to fucking Hugh Grant, you twat”

“But you’re living with him – “

“He’s a grown fucking man-“

“But he’s _your_ husband-“

“-What the fuck do you want me to tell you Malcolm? That my entire fucking marriage is a fucking charade?! That actually twenty five years of this shit, is about twenty too many-”

“-Oh the dozy mare finally fucking gets it, a round of applause for you,” he claps his hands slowly, like an applauding a very slow idiot. And that’s when the anger that’s been bubbling away at the surface, hits.

She glowers at him, smashing her glass down on the side cabinet “Y’know what, _asshat, none_ of this would bloody well matter if you hadn’t fucking opened Pandora’s fucking Box in the first place”, she spits into his face.

He stands up and peers at her from his advantage point “-But it fucking matters now you utter sad fuck; Jesus _cunting_ Christ. Are you actually fucking retarded, or have you been sniffing that stuff too, although you don’t have much to fucking rot anyway! It’s all melted away in there, hasn’t it?! I’m having to fucking firefight this shite for you, and you just stand there like a fucking octopus riding a llama. Let me try this simply love; you want to be leader, you cannot be leader when there’s shit being flung around by fucking gorilla’s-”

“For FUCK sake; for the last time; _YOU_ want me to be leader. Do not blame this on me, you fucker” her voice is shrill and he desperately hopes that they have sound proofing in this fucking over priced house; and she stands so that there at eye level  “I never wanted to be here. You asked me to stay, and I stupidly fucking thought it would get better. I wanted to fuck off to America, away from all of this. I could be fucking _divorced_ right now and not worrying about all of this shit - ”

“-Shut up Nicola. Shut the fuck up right now.” He hisses into her face, and the shock of seeing his bird like nose so close makes her stop “I can’t fucking think with you harping on, Jesus.” He paces back and forth like a trapped cat ““Is that what you want, a divorce?”

“What? I don’t know, because it’s not just about me, it’s about the kids and – “ 

 “-Right then, that’s settled;” he takes the mug away from her, walks over to the cabinet with the Ardberg on and pours a good deal of the bottle into it before handing it back to her “you, leader of mine, are going downstairs and having those photos done” touching her arm to try and get her up

“Malcolm. No. I don’t-“

“You don’t want a divorce. So what’s better than some nice family photographs to commemorate such a lovely time, that I’m sure you’ll all laugh about when I’m having a fucking aneurysm because of you and your fucked up family.  You’ll thank me for this y’know-”

She really has to fight the urge to slap him.

 

 

In the end, she’s pretty sure the photos will make her come out looking like an aged alcoholic, flushed and half squinting from the flash whilst trying to ignore James’ creeping hand on the small of her back.  Malcolm glowers at everyone who doesn’t do what the photographer wants. James the fucker, right at the end, when she thinks it’s safe, whispers to her during the last photo “I’m sorry, I love you,”

“Fuck of twat” a flash goes off “oh for fuck sake”, she growls to the room no longer caring if the kids  can hear her in the awkwardly silent room and stalks off before she can be done for a public murder.

It’s Malcolm that catches up with her out in the corridor; and he grabs her by the shoulder

“Nicola-“ she spins and takes in his face; stern and _angry,_ his eyes are black with rage making the red stand out and she wonders for a moment whether he’s actually crying blood. Fucking _vampire._

“What is this round fucking two?” Because the alcohol in her system has mixed with anger to make her want to literally kill someone

“You should be fucking grateful to me.”

“Sorry, what the hell; you tangerine obsessed twat? I should be grateful to you for this?! Do you really think I want to be here?! When you said _stay_ I fucking trusted you enough to stay in this god forsaken hell hole-“

His phone buzzes and he glowers at the screen like by look alone it’ll stop ringing, and when it doesn’t  holds up his hand as a way by an apology which angers her more “What?!”

 “Saved by the fucking bell”, Nicola mutters, pushing past him now that he’s distracted and  practically runs out of there, because she needs to _get the fuck out of this house._ Nicola storms through the kitchen, vaguely registering Sam standing at the island in the kitchen. She’s so angry that she doesn’t ask what the _hell_ Sam’s doing in her kitchen, and how long she’s been there -  because from the look of her and the wine glass she’s filled with wine - she’s been there long enough to make it look like it’s _her fucking kitchen._

“Fucking bastard!” she mutters as she picks up the glass of wine on her way out. Nicola notes that Sam just smiles and nods, but she isn’t sure whether she’s agreeing to the statement or whether she’s just telling her that yes it _is_ her glass of wine.

By the time she finishes moving, she’s already out on the patio, and she pauses long enough to take large gulp of wine. It’s the fucking _good_ wine. Part of her wants to turn and simply _ask_ Sam how the _fuck_ she managed not only to find the wine, but the _really_ good wine - and whether she’s to blame for the Ardberg - that she squirrels away for utter shambolic crises like today. She sighs and walks on; because walking to the bottom of the garden, where the swing seat was positioned, is a better option than being forced into the absolute tornado of chaos that’s going on in the house.

Sitting down, she takes in the peace of just being outside, late evening birds calling out to each other, the occasional car going down the road outside the house, a slam of doors from a car, the children from several houses down playing outside, giggling, and screaming as it sounds like there having a water fight.

 She grips her wine glass and then takes another gulp. She really shouldn’t be mixing so badly, but as she closes her eyes trying desperately not to think about what ways in which she could fucking both murder the two men in her life that have done nothing but fucking disappoint her, she realises that she doesn’t give a shit if she’s up vomiting tonight.

She feels utterly exhausted; exhausted from all the anger, from the release of it all, from how she couldn’t protect Katie, from how fucking shit her marriage has turned out to be; how she hasn’t been touched by him in years, how fucking disappointed she is because he’s let the side down on their fucking charade of a marriage that he just couldn’t keep up the pretence.

She’s grateful that it takes a while for someone to find her. She’s closed her eyes, savouring the wine and is vaguely aware of footsteps coming towards her, and really hopes that it isn’t a stray child or her husband.

It’s the worst case scenario. The smell of his cologne hits her first so she knows who it is before she opens her eyes and finds herself staring at even the love child of Hitler and Cancer

 “Fuck _sake._ Is alcohol glued to your hand? Have you and that wanabee Lindsay Lohan you’re married to; got a two for one fucking deal going on for sodding rehab? Is that it?”

She sighs “Seriously, just piss off.” She opens her eyes and stares at him, and he’s looking at her with an odd glint in his eye and she wonders not for the first time what he’s thinking, as he sits heavily down beside her

“By the way they’re Satsumas”

“What?” she spits out

“I’m obsessed with Satsuma’s. Not Tangerines. Hate them”

“Oh Fuck off, I can’t deal with this now” she eye rolls him and goes to get up, but he pulls her back down.

“N’cla stay,” and she stays because he suddenly looks so weary. When he at least speaks his voice is quiet, with all the weariness of someone who hadn’t slept properly in years, barely audible above the bird song “It was meant to be so fucking easy, getting you to be leader. So fucking easy –“

“Malcolm; Don’t.” She takes a deep fortifying breath “I really wish I could see all of this from your very fucked up perspective, but I just can’t get my head that far up my fucking arse. All I know without you none of this would be happening, and I wouldn’t keep closing my eyes and seeing Katie’s face

“Without me you’d be no-one”, but it’s not said with the usual malice and he gets up and starts pacing up and down in front of her, in the twilight he gives an appearance of a fucking skeleton that’s been brought up from it’s final resting place, a fucking vampire waiting to suck her dry which in a way she guessed he was. 

Anger bubbles again inside her; “Look I’ll resign if that makes things easier”, she takes a large glug of the wine.  It’s her ace card. It’s her _only_ ace card, but it makes her feel better just saying it; she wants to hurt him like he’s hurt her

He stops pacing then, staring at her like she's some kind of demented banshee “No you fucking won’t. I haven’t gone through all of that, fought this fucking fire for you, for you just to fucking resign you dozy cow.”

The anger boils over, and she stands shoving him in the chest “Do you really think I want to be here?! When you said stay I fucking trusted you enough to stay in this god forsaken hell hole. I had a plan y’know… America, Think Tank and then I’d fucking divorce the fucking parasitic shit because I would have no longer bloody needed him.  But no you had to come along with your fucking election and you actually _asked_ for me to stay to save the sinking sodding ship of a party and you BULLIED ME INTO AGREEING! And for what?! Absa- fucking- all. Because I didn’t save the fucking party, were in fucking opposition and NOW I’M YOUR FUCKING PUPPETT. And now, now I’m stuck here listening to how the man in there who I married is the lowest cunt ever. And the worst thing?! That’s why I wanted to go to FUCKING AMERCIA. This is all your fucking fault.”

The stunned look on his face, tells her that she’s definitely overstepped the mark. She realises she’s shaking from the force of her anger when she lifts the glass to her lips to drink because by fuck she needs it. She feels all of her anger from today start to calm, and all she can hear is the beating of her heart, the rush of blood in her ears. She’s finally told him what she wants to tell him, the words have been carving themselves through her chest longer that she knew.

“Do you ever just stop?” he asks her quietly it’s more a statement than anything else, and she glowers at him as he sits down next to her on the creaking seat with a huge sigh, this time more graceful than anyone has the right to be on a fucking swing seat. She watches him like a Gazelle watches a Lion as he closes his eyes as he rubs the bridge of his nose; like what he’s really needing to _think_ about he’s about to say. She’s prepared for one of his rants. She can tell that he’s building up to eviscerate her, to shout at her, to abuse her but she can cope with that, because finally she’s told him properly how he feels. She’s ready for whatever he has to throw at her.

 “I’m fucking sorry …”

The words have the actual effect of _winding_ her. She doesn’t know what to do with sorry. She thinks of a million things she could say to him, but instead, she sits dumbfounded onto the seat and just stares at him next to her in shock and disbelief, until everything about the past few weeks; his plans for her to seemingly take over the world, the kiss in Birmingham, fucking James who it turns out is a complete twat, the constant fucking arguing, Katie's heart breaking in the kitchen, the actual pain she now feels, how utterly exhausted she feels...

She feels like an empty  shell.

 “Fuck you”, it comes out shaky, quiet she doesn’t recognise her voice as she stares at the sky, and notes a plane contrail, golden from the glow of the sun and it starts to blur with unshed tears, multiplying until she finally allows herself to break, and buries her head in her hands, wine glass sticking awkwardly into her cheek, whole body shaking, as the grief escapes her.

She doesn’t feel him get closer until she feels herself being pulled gently into his chest, awkwardly taking the glass of her.

A hand she comes to realise cradles her head, and she makes a fist of his shirt and smells his cologne as she sobs into him, her head under his, as he tells her quietly that it’ll be alright.

She cries harder.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for sticking by this story. I hope that I can update it sooner and I really do hope it's worth the wait :)


	4. Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the silence of the big house, it’s not quiet enough, because she hears footsteps from the room next door and the door creaking open and the corridor light turning on, and then finally her door “N’cla?”
> 
> She tries to say something, anything, but as she’s too far gone now and she almost ends up choking in her effort to stop crying. The bed dips, and she turns her head; blurry with tears to find him peeling back the cover, and getting into the bed next to her, lying down on his back and pulling her over so her head rests on his chest, an arm creeps around her shoulder, holding her firmly in place, he kisses the top of her head. She feels the safest she’s done in years.

Later, when it’s grown darker; once the sobs have subsided and she can breathe without hiccupping; once the embarrassment and the alarm bells have started setting in – _fuck she’s hugging Malcolm! –_ and she’s taken herself out of the warmest, safest, hug she’s had in a very long time, they just sit together in the silence, watching a solitary bat flying around the sky, catching bugs. And _it’s nice._ And then it’s too nice, and suddenly her head is full of alarm bells, and she can barely breathe and her chest is heavy so she gets up and walks off alone down the path back to the kitchen.

Malcolm doesn’t follow her immediately. He closes his eyes, and pinches the top of his nose; he feels so weary, so fucking exhausted like he could sleep for a thousand years. All of this was meant to be so fucking easy and then it _really wasn’t._ Nicola is a fucking omnishambolic frump whose about as useful as an Imam at a Bar Mitzvah, but she’s what the voters would _want._ That’s what the party _needs;_ someone he can control.

That’s what he keeps telling himself anyway.

Because now it’s just got fucking confusing.  One moment he finds he wants to fucking kill the dozy mare and fucking apologise to the sodding tree that’s working very hard to replace the oxygen that she and her sodding family consume, and the next he actually wants to tear apart the absolute fucking asshat for _hurting_ her.

But then he’s always felt like this with women; over protective. He’s like it with Sam whenever a lucky twat gets near enough to her, and his sister… and his Ma.

It’s certainly _nothing_ to do with the _dreams_ he’s been having about her whenever he’s lucky enough to have more than two hours of sleep. Christ on a cross trainer. He knows Nicola. She’s got to be very different from dream Nicola who has semi controllable hair. For starters he very much doubts that real Nicola would even own a lacy bra, a tiny thong and who would spread her legs wide over the edge of his desk, with come fuck me eyes...

_Fuck._

He opens his eyes and see’s the lights are now back on in the house where Sam had turned them off when he insisted she take his car after all the fucking wankers had left.

Malcolm Tucker definitely does not feel guilty about any of this, because no matter what Nicola has yelled at him today _none_ this is his fault; _She wouldn’t know Pandora’s fucking Box if it jumped up and hit her in the fucking face._   So he’s going to go home and actually fucking rest before the next load of shit hits him from the mouth breathers; like when she’ll suddenly call him at about 4am and probably beg for a divorce lawyer.

Instead though, as he steps in through the kitchen door he finds himself taking off his suit jacket, rolling up his sleeves, ignoring the wetness that’s seeped through his shirt onto his skin _If she’s ruined sodding Armani_ … He can hear her walking about upstairs doing God knows what frumps do _when there walking around in lacy black bra’s_ and instead turns his attentions to the fridge and cupboards. He knows she won’t eat, and she’s drank an awful lot today and he desperately doesn’t want to go home and then be called out back to her in an hours time because she’s threatening to commit fucking suicide or get a divorce lawyer. He just wants an easier life.

He tries to ignore the feeling that he should leave really as he stares into the enormous fridge because it really isn’t up to him to make sure she’s alright. It should be easy really, he’s should be used to ignoring these feelings, but today’s  been an odd sort of a day and he feels he can’t leave her in this fucking huge house, knowing her fucking twat of a husband is shagging someone else and he’s fucking knackered, and his boys did a good job today and _sorted_ it and she might _do_ something, and well he’s hungry and she should eat… _Fucking hell Tucker when did you get so soft?!_

He sees that she has mince – _fucking organic -_ in the fridge, and then quietly potters around trying to find other ingredients that he’ll need, thanking his lucky stars that although Nicola fucking Murray really is the biggest omnishambles of all time, she at least by the Grace of God has a fucking logical kitchen. He assumes it’s down to the Nanny, because left to her it’d probably be fucking alphabetical or some other kind of shit rather than actually practical.

He finds the onions and the garlic, and the knife and is in the process of chopping them up

“What the hell are you doing?” her voice sounds husky from the crying and it makes him jump, he turns holding a knife which she decides to ignore

“-Bolognaise” he turns to look at her, she’s standing at the door, put on something fucking loud and more comfortable from the looks at it

“Bolognaise?” she repeats dumbly,

“Yes, Spaghetti Bolognaise. The Italian pasta dish”, replying like she’s thick, placing it on the hob and turning the gas on, _in her fucking house,_  like it’s the most natural thing the world “you have the ingredients for it.” She’s not entirely sure _how,_ she hasn’t been out food shopping in ages.

“Why?” she asks as she watches him pours her out a glass of the red wine that Sam opened earlier. She tries hard not think about how fucking _domestic_ this is, how James hasn’t poured her a glass of wine in _years,_ and how the hell this event has happened, but it’s certainly different to that of Malcolm just walking into a room like he owns it, now he’s _fucking cooking in her fucking kitchen._

 “it’s nine thirty at night, the fucking Geordie Shore extra you’re married too on gave me a fucktron of work today, which my boys and I fucking sorted.  The photographs came up pretty fucking good whilst you darling look like you’ve had been through a hedge backwards and personally I think we both need something to eat”

“You eat?!”

“Yes darling. Sometimes I eat, us vampires do need some substance.”

She gives him a half smile, which does _something_ to him inside of her ribs; which he doesn’t investigate too closely. She doesn’t feel particularly hungry, so she pads over, grasps the wine, and then suddenly realises the house is far too quiet.

 “Shit, where’s… where’s everyone?” she blindly looks up at him, her red eyes looking panicky and that’s the last thing he needs or wants is Nicola panicking

 “Fuck Nicola.  Are you absolutely sure you haven’t taken any of the stuff?-”

Nicola sighs heavily “Malcolm-”

“-Sam bless her; booked the useless brain dead twat a hotel room to stay in, several nights actually. He’s practically being guarded by Billy, good guy. As for the retards you call children, your eldest-

“Look, Malcolm – “

“Your eldest and Sam managed to get the Nanny to come around and take them off to the marzipan dildo’s mother.”

She feels overwhelmed by it all, overwhelmed that they have obviously decided all of this is far too much for her. So she doesn’t say anything else, because she’s afraid she might actually cry again, and just sits and watches him, sipping at the wine. It’s quite therapeutic to watch how intent he is on cooking, chopping things up like he’s at home, in her kitchen. He, like everything he does, knows what he’s doing, there’s something quite beautiful about him doing this. she can see the tension seemingly leech out of his body and she shouldn’t actually be thinking about how handsome he looks with a tea towel thrown over his shoulder; _she’s married…_ she twists her rings absentmindedly… _although not much longer_ her traitorous mind adds.

She knows she should chuck him out the house, to stop trusting him but she’s exhausted and hasn’t been cooked for in ages. James certainly doesn’t do it for her, it’s either take-away or microwave meals and if she has the energy it’s whatever the Nanny’s left for them when she gets back at silly o’clock usually.

He can feel her eyes boring into her back and he hesitates; because he suddenly wants to make it better for her so he struggles to find the right words, because it’s suddenly it’s the most important thing in the world for her to know, so turns around, knife glinting in the artificial light

 “The useless cunt…he..” Malcolm for once tries to find the right words “he snorted the stuff, couldn’t get it up and then started weeping like a jessy” he turns back and concentrates on the frying

“Is” she can’t get it out, it’s stuck in her throat “the prostitute, was it… his first?”

He sighs heavily, hoping she wouldn’t ask him this, because it actually hurts him “From what Frankie found out, no”

“Fuck. Wanker”

“Did you know he’d been screwing-?”

He watches her. He knows it’s the worst possible question both professionally and personally he could ask and she has no-where to go so she has to answer it. She’s exhausted herself from crying and he’s staring at her, and she feels herself burning under the gaze of his blue eyes so she takes a huge glug of wine, hoping to stave off a few more seconds

“I thought he’d been having an affair-”

He turns around, waving the spatula about and she watches as pieces of onion fly off   “If ignorance is bliss you should have been the happiest person alive Nicola. Everything matters now. Everything that you don’t think matters, how much more do I need to tell you? Fucking hell-“ he shakes his head, his anger he knows is displaced, he’s more angry at that dope head than her, so he turns back and rips the packet of mince. _Shit, it’s not her_. He has to show it’s not her he’s angry at…

She expels a breathe she didn’t know she was holding, and whether it’s due to the exhaustion she feels, or whether it’s the mixture of alcohol, or how she feels like she’s cried everything out of her, or simply because she feels safer more comfortable around him than she has done with any other man recently she finds herself  she finds herself saying quietly; “I think he’s had an affair before. I never asked. I never really wanted to know. I was pregnant with Harry and at the time thought ignorance was bliss. But I had a feeling…”

“Jesus Fucking Christ, Nicola” He e feels anger that he can’t really place “It still fucking hurts, even if our marriage is barely fucking functional”

“Aye lass”, he starts furiously stirring “are you sure you don’t want to divorce him?”

She laughs at that question, “I’d end up getting the kids, and I can’t what with everything...becoming leader-”

He finally throws the remaining mince in the pan, and it sizzles with the fierceness of the heat as it’s turned right up and right now it’s the only thing that’s keeping him fucking calm, because he was hoping she’d say yes;

“You can’t live for the fucking electorate, Nicola-”

“You fucking rabid vampire.” Her wine glass crashes down, and he turns to look at her, and she’s scowling “I do, because that’s my job. And that will continue to be my job even when you’ve fucking bullied me and everyone else so that I’ve  become fucking leader-“

“We can find a fucking way” he cuts in to her speech. “I do have a good lawyer”

She nods, curtly, and then pours herself another glass obviously signalling that this part of the conversation is now well truly and over at this moment. So he shuts up about the _rabid coke snorting cock_. There both silent for a while the heat extractor which Malcolm finally turned on roaring between them and she watches him as he gets the tomato sauce ( _organic_ her mind supplies) and tips it in.

“Could you get me some bowls and put them into heat, or would that be too much to ask?” he asks disdainfully, breaking the silence trying desperately to stop himself thinking about all the ways he’d quite like to kill James. She slides off the stool and  pads over to the hob to get the plates out, she watches him as he fills a pan full of water.

“I’m a fucking great cook, you’re going to love this”

She smiles at the back of him, and shakes her head in amusement and he tries to ignore how it makes him feel inside– sliding the plates into the heating drawer

“Pride comes before a fall”,

“I’m no Icarus darling…” he nods towards the wine “fucking pour me some then”  

She ignores the way he rolls the R in such a way that it makes her go all warm inside, blames it on all the Ardberg and instead busies herself. They move around each  other, like a couple who have been together for ages and know how to synchronise ,and years from now Nicola will realise how today showed her that they fit together in a way she and James never did.

 It turns out he is a bloody good cook after all. They eat at the breakfast bar, because neither of them can be arsed to walk the short distance to the large wooden table that stands just outside the main kitchen.  They talk about nothing in particular, certainly not what happened today, or the potential of her divorcing James, he takes it as an opportunity to rant about his early days being a journalist in Glasgow and everything that’s he learnt from it.

And somehow Nicola finds herself wanting to remember this moment, wanting to take a photograph of it in her mind because it just seems so normal, so un-Malcolm, something that she can keep, that’s hers when he is yelling at her and everything is going to shit.

xxxx

 

She’s polishing off the third glass of wine when the magic ends, his phone starts to ring from his suit jacket and he dashes over and whips it out and Malcolm Tucker, the reptilian arsehole is back as he yells down the phone to the poor sod at the other end “The fuck?” and she vaguely hopes that none of her neighbours kids are outside because she doesn’t want to be dealing with sanctimonious, smug Mummy from next door coming round and telling her off for teaching Persephone the word “fuck” or any other colourful word that Malcolm chooses to use.  

She sighs and gets up and starts the washing up, fairs only fair really, he did cook but she wishes she could have the calmer, if possible, nicer Malcolm for longer. She vaguely notices the clock and that it’s fucking eleven thirty already.

And maybe it’s the wine, maybe it’s everything that happened today, maybe it’s the surrealism of the situation but she suddenly doesn’t want him to go, she doesn’t want to be left alone. She’s mulling this over when he comes back in and she just stares at him

“What?”

“Oh… nothing, just thinking”

“Well, stop. You look like a concussed cat on a flying trapeze.”

“You definitely know how to raise a girls self esteem”

“No problem. Look, let me help you”, and before she can say no, he’s next to her, grabbing the tea towel and starting to dry up the saucepan; which he concentrates very heavily on

 “Malcolm”, she concentrates on making sure the pot is very clean, and _not_ on his long thin fingers, and then he says “you should stay tonight, it’s late”

He laughs at her “I already am you daft cow. Sam brought me a case when she came.”

“Huh?” , it’s literally the only word that she can think of saying, there are suddenly alarm bells in her head and she finds herself wondering whether she’s hallucinating or whether actually she’s had a cerebral aneurysm and she _wants_ to pinch herself, but she’s very middle class, and she has those bright yellow gloves because otherwise the sodding Daily Mail would probably write a whole article about her hands, finally ending in how much her house is and what size she is when she shakes hands with one of the acne ridden teenagers that are seen as journalists. As he stares at the pan he’s drying, she attempts furtively to slightly stab herself with the knife that’s still floating around, and it turns out that not only is it up rather sharp, but she’s not hallucinating and now she has a hole in the fucking glove.

He thinks of everything he could say in that point in time. And then comes out with;

“I didn’t know whether I’d manage to kill the story, but there’s rumours of you and  brain dead spunk trumpet whose a fucking waste of precious oxygen. I have the boys onto it, but we could have a few colostomy bags camped outside the house, and really what I want in the morning is a really good fucking yell-“

“Right, yes, that makes sense. Perfect sense” _Does it, does it really making fucking sense?_ She nods, she nods so much, she feels like one of those fucking nodding dogs that is so insanely irritating in the back of cars she sometimes follows that she’d like to stop the dick in front of her, and then pull their heads off. “Oh shit. Shit. Shit. Um.. the spare room was being done up, we had a leak somewhere and its in the middle of being painted…but then I guess you don’t actually sleep, you’ll just stalk down here, drinking my coffee supply dry whilst trying to find a few young virgins blood to drink”

“Ha, don’t make me laugh Nicky, you won’t be finding any of them around here! I’ll kip on the sofa”

She takes a breath, lets out the water in the sink, watching the water drain away and looks up at him “Malcolm, no. You can’t. Not after today. I’ll sleep in Ella’s room, she’s got a perfectly fine bed and you can take the main room.”

 xxxx

 

It turns out that Ella’ double  bed isn’t _perfectly_ fine, neither is Katie’s. It’s softer than the avocadoes she buys that haven’t turned ripe and forgets about and then five days later there softer than a babies bum. She lies there, on the soft bed, because she can’t sleep, she’s pretty sure her back will kill her tomorrow and tries really fucking hard not to think about the dickbag she’s married too and how _Malcolm_ is just down the hall,  and  she knows she should sleep, because if she doesn’t she will have a full on breakdown in the darkness, and she’s pretty sure the walls are closing in on her.

She tries hard not to thinks about Katie today in the kitchen _;_ and how devastated she was, or him lying beside her, after he's _shagged_ a prostitute. She feels tears in the back of her throat, and she knows she needs to sleep and suddenly she’s blinking and the steadying breath she thinks she’s taking ends up as a gasp and then a sob; and then suddenly she’s facing the wall and crying loudly.

In the silence of the big house, it’s not quiet enough, because she hears footsteps from the room next door and the door creaking open and the corridor light turning on, and then finally her door “N’cla?”

She tries to say something, anything, but as she’s too far gone now and she almost ends up choking in her effort to stop crying. The bed dips, and she turns her head; blurry with tears to find him peeling back the cover, and getting into the bed next to her, lying down on his back and pulling her over so her head rests on his chest, an arm creeps around her shoulder, holding her firmly in place, he kisses the top of her head. She feels the safest she’s done in years.

 

In the morning, when she wakes he’s gone; his side long since cold.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you again - hope you enjoyed them :). Promise to update sooner then 4 months!


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